


We'll Never Get Used To It

by deerna



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 05:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20168653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerna/pseuds/deerna
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley re-learn how to act around each other after the Apocalypse That Wasn't, grow closer in the process, and Crowley realises that after a lifetime of rejections he finally found a place he can call home.As he watches Aziraphale, clad in a pair of linen trousers, matching waistcoat and a pale shirt with its sleeves rolled up, kneeling on the blanket as he cuts up the cake, Crowley thinks he will never get used to it. He spent a long time sleeping, but he never had dreams; maybe this is it.





	1. Two Weeks After The Apocalypse That Wasn't

**Author's Note:**

> [...]  
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
> 
> Richard Siken, “_Scheherazade”_ from _Crush_ (Yale University Press, 2005)

Since they avoided the end of the world and their planned demise, they've been on a food tour.

Beef tartare, duck liver and a whole lot of champagne at the Ritz for starters; fifteen types of sushi and a bottle of warm sake afterwards, in a tiny hole in the wall where Aziraphale spends the first half hour chatting up the chef in Japanese; crêpes, although not as good as the ones they ate in Paris three centuries ago; steak and kidney pie and fish and chips and beer, because Crowley does like the feeling of a good pub crawl; cupcakes and black tea in a tiny shop on a cobbled street they almost missed; angel cake and devilled eggs to be washed down with coffee, because it’s one of those inside jokes that will never stop being funny; way too much wine in the backroom of Aziraphale’s bookshop to finish, because certain things never change—much like going out for lunch together, actually, but since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t something feels funny about it.

“I’ll be out of your hair,” Crowley slurs, getting up from the arm of Aziraphale’s battered couch and sliding his sunglasses back into place. “I don't want to get in the way of your... whatever it is you need to do with those books.” Vaguely gesturing towards the piles of tomes littering the place works as a conclusion, he decides.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale nods and pulls himself on his feet, a little wobbly, rolling down the sleeves of his shirt to cover his wrists. “I haven’t finished catag— calat— putting them in order yet.” His lids are heavy and a sloppy smile drips off his mouth. “There are quite a lot of peculiar ones. I haven't decided if it’s because Adam has a sense of humour or if it’s because he's eleven.”

Crowley scoffs. “Both, probably. He wouldn’t be the leader of his little gang if he were some dull baboon, would he?"

“Mmm.”

“Whatever. Teenagers are fucking _weird_ anyway.”

Aziraphale frowns. “He’s eleven, he’s not a teenager yet, is he?” He says, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt, attempting and failing to button them up. “Oh well. Not that it matters.”

Crowley doesn’t know why Aziraphale always insists on walking him to the entrance of the shop, when he knows the shop’s layout better than his own apartment at this point. It must be something about etiquette, or some behaviour he read about in one of his books. Aziraphale always liked that kind of thing; he even pulls his jacket on, before unlocking the door and letting the evening's chill in.

“Oh! Don’t forget to sober up before driving!”

“Ugh, don't worry, I’m _not_ going to drive the Bentley while pissed after all the shit she went through.”

They easily fall back in the rhythm of their good-natured, familiar banter. Same script as before, as if nothing changed. Crowley walks off and crosses the street, willing the alcohol to disappear from his bloodstream as he opens the car’s door. Aziraphale looks on, plastered against the entrance in more ways than one, a dopey, bright smile on his face.

“See you tomorrow!” the angel calls cheerfully with a little wave, wiggling on the balls of his feet.

Crowley can't help but smile back, and gives him a brief wave of his own. He climbs in the car, turns the player on and drives off, a warmth that has nothing to do with Freddy Mercury’s talented vocals flowing down his spine.

Nothing changed except _everything._


	2. Before The Concept Of Time Was Even Invented

Raphael loves the stars and gets scolded a lot.

He can't help it, there's a lot of stuff going on everywhere at once and he wants to _know_ things, he's just that curious, so he asks. Why make the universe so big if She’s going to populate just that small planet over there, in that small stellar system, in the corner of that small galaxy? What's the point of all these shiny things if humans won’t be able to appreciate them from up close? And why just one moon for the Earth She picked, when moons are the _coolest_?

He asks and he asks. He can tell that Gabriel and Michael come _this _close to telling him off—the Almighty's plan is _ineffable_, Raphael. There is no way nor need to know what She's thinking, what She’s hiding behind that enigmatic smile of hers, Raphael. Why don’t you go make another nebula, Raphael?

Always telling him what to do, those two. They're no fun at all.

Lucky for him, there are other angels who like asking questions, who don’t like being told what to do. He spends a lot of time with them, even though he’s not supposed to, because at least _they_ are fun. He never hears the bitter undertone to their dark mutterings. He almost misses when they stop complaining and start _planning_.

Lucifer calls for a rebellion, for a war—

Raphael can’t pick a side. Heaven catches on fire.

It’s too late.


	3. A Full Month After The Apocalypse That Wasn't

It’s a beautiful day—

Actually no, it's raining and it’s too cold for this time of the year. Crowley doesn’t particularly care. It still feels like a beautiful day as he walks aimlessly around West End with Aziraphale.

They find shelter in a small café that is enough out of the way not to be crowded, and they order coffee and sweets—a slice of chocolate and salted caramel tart that they're meant to share but that Crowley knows by _smell alone_ will be too rich for his sensitive palate. He’s more than happy to give his part to Aziraphale; the angel has been finishing his desserts for as long as he can remember, and what Crowley enjoys the most about their food outings is watching Aziraphale enjoy his meals, anyway.

The funny feeling doesn't go away.

Crowley sips at his coffee not even tasting it, eyes distractedly tracking Aziraphale's movements as the angel methodically digs his fork through the tart’s gooey filling and crumbly crust, scooping up perfectly bite-sized morsels with practised ease.

He feels dazed. It’s been such a weird month. Too normal, in fact.

They’ve known each other for six thousand years, which is a long time even for creatures who existed before the _concept_ of time was invented, but their encounters throughout the centuries had been fleeting affairs at best. The last time they had spent so many consecutive days in each other's company had been while they were looking after Warlock, and even then they hadn't spent time together as themselves. It was _business_. How do you go from that to... this? And there was also that other matter— 

“Are you alright, Crowley?”

Crowley blinks. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

“Oh, nothing important,” Aziraphale reassures him quickly, tucking the last bite of crust in his mouth with a quick gesture. It was probably something about the tart; he drags his lips across the fork’s tins in order to catch all the caramel stuck to them, in that oddly-sensual-for-an-angel, sensual-for-the-wrong-reasons way of his that fascinates Crowley, before speaking again. “Are you troubled about something? You seem— well, distracted.”

“Distracted? No, no. It’s just— I mean—ngk.” Crowley puts the cup down. “It’s been a month, hasn't it.”

“Ah. Yes. About that.” Aziraphale fidgets with the fork. “I meant to ask you, but then—”

The cold from the rain suddenly seeps in Crowley’s bones. “You heard from—” His tongue feels inhuman, unable to speak words for a moment. He struggles with the term for what feels like an eternity before settling on “—upstairs?”

“What? No! Of course not, I would've told you right away if I did.” A shadow of _guilt_ flits across his expression, memories of old misgivings staining his looks before sinking under puzzlement and alarm. “Why are you asking, have _you_— have you heard from... well. _Down_stairs?”

Maybe that's what it was, the funny feeling. The silence. He’s been waiting for some other shoe to drop, but if he and Aziraphale have been openly fraternizing for the past month and nothing has happened yet— “I doubt I would even be around to tell you about it if I did, angel.”

Aziraphale’s aghast expression pulls a dull, unamused laughter from Crowley's tightening throat.

“I’ve been going back to the apartment to rest but I couldn't get a wink of sleep,” Crowley blurts out, non-sequitur, too sincere. An admission of failure for a task no one had assigned him with. There’s something in his mouth, something that feels like a big wad of balled-up sandpaper, maybe. It tastes like irony and sulphur, in the back of his tongue. The tablecloth burns under his hand, as he tries to push his sunglasses further up his nose with the other. He avoids looking at Aziraphale, knowing that if he sees _that look_ in his eyes he will want to run, to get away— 

Aziraphale touches his hand, unwittingly pinning him to the table. Crowley can't help but glance at him; the angel smiles, eyes soft, a stupidly earnest expression brightening up his whole face.

“Me too,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds as choked up as Crowley feels. He gives a conceding nod with his head. “Well, you know I don’t _sleep _but— what I meant is that I’ve been feeling _dreadfully_ restless too, Crowley.”

“Dreadfully,” Crowley repeats, numbly, looking down. Aziraphale has got a very nice hand. Soft, well cared for. Even his _nails_ look soft, somehow. The pads of his thumb and pointer press in the bony part of Crowley's wrist in a very soothing manner.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Aziraphale goes on, hesitates like he wants to say something, to explain what he’s thinking, maybe, he’s always done that a lot but never when it mattered— ”Why don't you stay the night, this time?”

Crowley forgets to blink. “You— I— You mean at the shop?”

“Yes. Since you're not sleeping and I’m not getting anything done, I thought we could keep each other company. Only if you want, of course, it’s just an idea—”

The wad of sandpaper melts, slides down Crowley's throat and settles in his stomach. Harmless. Warm.

“I’d like that,” he tells Aziraphale, turning his wrist. Their palms press against each other, Aziraphale curls his fingers around his. It feels nice. It feels right.


	4. One Thursday Afternoon Before Armageddon Was Of Any Concern

The only room in Crowley's apartment that looks lived in is the greenroom. When he’s at the flat, it's the place he spends most of his time in, after all: his personal reign of terror, the only place in the entire universe and outside of it where he is truly in control. The plants in it, so glossy and gorgeous they almost seem fake, are his pride and joy, although he would never admit it.

He leans against the wall just outside the door and takes a moment to just breathe in the smell of dirt and growing things, soothing and familiar, a reminder of another garden, of another life. When he slithers in, sunglasses carefully tucked away in the pocket of his jacket, the smell changes instantly; plants don’t sweat, don’t scream, don’t beg for forgiveness, but Crowley feels it all the same. He surveys the state of the leaves, wonders if maybe _he's_ the one who becomes different when he walks through that door, a pawn made tyrant by a taste of power. A fallen angel sitting on a throne.

He mostly mutters to himself while spraying water on the dark leaves, checking for spots and parasites, taking note of which of the older plants finally need to be repotted— and then he spots it.

Crowley touches the limp, discoloured leaf with delicate fingers. The plant it belongs to is a small thing, half hidden behind a monster of a Pothos that had decided to hit a growth spurt in a sudden bout of optimism, blocking her light. She couldn't have avoided yellowing in any way, short of sprouting legs and crawling out of the shadowy spot she had been stuck in. As Crowley reaches around the giant Pothos to get her, he feels her trembling under his fingers; he wonders if she knew she'd been set up for failure. Not that he would have spared her either way—there were no exceptions in Crowley's garden.

“What do we have here? Another disappointment, huh?” He picks her up, his fingers briefly touching the wet soil just inside the rim of the vase, pulling her off the shelf for everyone to see. He lowers his voice, putting danger behind his teeth. “This is _not_ how we do things here, princess. What were you thinking?”

The smell of fear is cloying and suffocating. He breathes in, sulphur and acid and soil and moisture, almost chokes on it as his eyes dry up and colour bleeds away. _What were you thinking?_ Gabriel's voice echoes in his head.

“I won't see you fail,” he snarls to the room at large. “May your friend’s fate be example for you all. I _won’t_ see you fail, are we clear?” It lets it echo briefly against the only bare wall and the window, the rest of the sound getting soaked up by terrified vegetal matter and wet dirt, before walking out of the room without uttering another word.

His jaw feels stiff and his gut burns and churns as he walks into the kitchen, potted plant still hanging from his fingers. He flicks the rubbish disposal switch on, allows the ugly, deafening noise drown his thoughts out for a moment before focusing on the terrified, limp chunk of useless greenery in his hand.

"It’s alright,” he scoffs at it.

He carefully rips her out of her vase, roots still clinging to their lump of dirt. The plastic container goes on the kitchen counter with a loud click. He can almost taste her confusion as he walks away from the sink into the living room and the atrium, spraying speckles of soil all over his expensive hardwood floors. He opens the front door with a snap and puts his glasses back on, just in case.

The descent to the lobby is just two flights of stairs long, but it always feels so much longer when he has the smell of soil in his nostrils. The swathe of potted plants in the hall looks miserable as usual.

“Killing you would’ve been easier,” Crowley says, miracling the plant in her new spot, next to the wilting spider plant that tried to die on him two weeks ago. The light isn’t ideal, but that is the point. She's used to darker places, anyway. “This is not mercy. You’ll never see me again. You're someone else’s problem, now.”

He looks at the perplexed plant for a moment, then he saunters off, thinking of alcohol and burning flesh. 


	5. Three Months After The Apocalypse That Wasn't

There’s a room above Aziraphale's bookshop.

Crowley knew that already, because he’d noticed the staircase in the back of the shop's backroom at some point, during one of their drinking evenings, and asked where they lead, since he never remembered Aziraphale mentioning the existence of another floor.

“Oh, it’s just upstairs,” Aziraphale had said, unhelpfully and somewhat drunkenly. “It's just a room, really,” he insisted, and that had been the end of it, until a few weeks into the arrangement—not the Arrangement, of course, the _other_ arrangement: the one where Crowley accepted to spend the night at Aziraphale's, sometimes; the one where he silently touched Aziraphale's mug of cold cocoa to warm it up again whenever the angel got too absorbed into whatever tome he was reading; the one where he dozed off on the couch in the middle of the night, and in the morning he woke up with a crick in his neck, the smell of freshly brewed coffee in his nose and the worn, soft throw that usually lived on Aziraphale's favourite armchair wrapped around his body to keep him toasty as he slept; the one where Aziraphale smiled at him as he asked him to fetch this volume or the other.

According to Aziraphale, for reasons that were apparently so obvious the angel didn't bother to explain them, it was only fair that Crowley had a space for himself and his things at the shop. It was for Crowley's comfort, of course, but Aziraphale also insisted that he would have been absolutely pleased if he accepted his offer, which wasn't meant to be taken as an obligation at all.

Crowley almost refused, because, for one thing, living above a bookshop isn't _cool_—well, maybe it is if you're one of those hipsters who wear fake glasses and only listen to bands that nobody has ever heard of, but Crowley definitely isn’t trying to be _that_ kind of human—and because the urge to throw wrenches in his own plans is as strong as the one to glue coins to the pavement. He didn't have valid excuses, really. On the other hand, the idea of moving in with Aziraphale is—

Well. They're still not talking about—but it's okay. He accepted, in the end, so that’s what counts. Actions speaking louder than words, and all that. They have literally all the time in the world to eventually _talk._ Probably.

On top of everything, they are both still waiting for the other shoe to drop. They keep telling each other that they are doing better at ignoring the nagging fear, but it is a hard feeling to shake. Spending time together _does_ help, though.

Anyway. The current issue is that there is a room above Aziraphale's shop, and—not much else.

Crowley walks in the middle of the empty space, his boots leaving deep imprints in the thick layer of dust covering the floor. There is no furniture, with the exception of a very old chair in a corner and a very dark, very heavy velvet curtain covering the walls where he supposes windows are; a fireplace that isn't full of soot just because it had probably never been used by its current owner; wallpaper as ugly as sin, but no pictures or paintings on the walls; and—thank _Someone _for small favours—no carpet (although it _is_ a bit hard to tell, under the grime).

“You know, when you said ‘it’s just a room’ I didn’t think you meant literally _just_ a room.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, taking a look around, still stuck on the door. He hastily swipes his hand like a choir master, willing the dust out of existence and making the room spotless in less than a blink, and then looks at Crowley, shuffling on his feet, looking a little perplexed and very embarrassed.

“I have to apologize, I didn't think it would be in such poor conditions. I knew it had been a while since I came up here, but clearly it has been longer than I remembered—”

"Don't fret, angel. Thanks for taking care of the housekeeping.”

Aziraphale mutters something in response as he comes closer to where Crowley is standing, but Crowley just tunes him out as he concentrates on vanishing the curtains with a gesture and picturing how the room could look like with a proper fix-up.

Now that it's not covered in two centuries of ancient dust, the place is actually pretty nice. It was probably meant to be a bedroom, with enough space for a desk and a few shelves in a corner. The floors, quality hardwood in a rich brown colour, need a little work and the wallpaper needs to disappear as soon as possible, but other than that it's a perfectly respectable room. The three previously hidden windows on the southern wall let a lot of light in, although it's the moody light of a rainy afternoon. With the right furniture it could turn out very well. Sure, it wouldn't be as stylish as his apartment in Mayfair, but—it feels right, with Aziraphale standing next to him. Aziraphale isn't stylish; Aziraphale is cosy, and warm, and safe, and—

“It’s not bad,” he says, finally. He clears his throat. “I like the windows.”

Aziraphale beams. “I thought you might. You could bring a few of your plants here!”

Crowley laughs. “Slow down, angel—” he starts, and chokes on it, immediately, _horrifyingly_ aware of the irony.

The rain hitting the roof feels deafening in the sudden silence.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn't mean—” Aziraphale says, quietly, and Crowley wishes for a swig of holy water.

“I meant—_furniture _first, maybe? You know, a bed, or a couch,” he rambles. _I’m not pushing you away, _he wants to say. _I’m not taking it back_. _Not after all this time. _“Or a couch that can turn into a bed, they've been a thing for a while. And maybe we can put your armchair over there,” he says, instead, because _he's a bloody idiot_.

“Oh.” Aziraphale breathes out, as if he'd been holding his breath, and grins, a twinkle in his eyes. “My armchair?”

“—and _then_ if I can figure out how to keep it humid enough, bring over a few plants. Huh? Yes.” He swallows, gesturing at the empty room. “I mean, it would look great under the window, over there. We can put a nice lamp in the corner so you can read in the evenings, and—yeah, you get the point,” he trails off. “Plants would come later. Need to plan the rest, first. Together?”

Aziraphale looks so pleased with himself he's practically glowing. “I think I’d like that very much.”

“Uh. Great. We’ll do that, then.”

They stand beside each other in the middle of the empty room for a moment, looking at the empty fireplace as the sound of the rain gets stronger. Aziraphale's shoulder is warm against his and the relative silence is comfortable.

Crowley wishes he didn't know what was happening, but oh, he knows. It's the old song and dance; he spent six thousand years pushing, pushing, pushing, watching Aziraphale, wondering if he was really put off by his behaviour or if he _was_ tempted and just holding back—until Aziraphale had told him to _slow down, _because _he wanted_, Crowley knew, at that point, but _he couldn't, _because angels and demons and Heaven and Hell and Crowley had had _enough_ of that rubbish back when he was the only crawling creature in all Eden, but he _knew_ that Aziraphale had a point. Armageddon had erased that. They had tricked Heaven and Hell—were they even angels or demons anymore?—and they had nowhere to go, not that they ever did—

The point is. Aziraphale gets it. Aziraphale _gets him_. Aziraphale—

“I’m glad you decided to stay.”

Crowley laughs, wetly. “I love you too, angel.”


	6. Just After The Beginning

The garden is empty. The humans are gone. There is a storm brewing on the horizon.

The _snake_—not Raphael, not anymore, never again Raphael—doesn't know that it's called a storm, because storms hadn't been invented before that moment, and he doesn't care, either.

He crawls. That's what he does, now. He's a Crawley, if you will.

Crawley tastes the air with his tongue, and finds it strangely bitter. The sky is getting darker above the Eastern Gate, and long jagged strings of light jump from one side to the other. All the animals are hidden, scared away.

Whiter than white against the gloomy clouds, the angel stands on the wall, wings large and droopy. Familiar like a sibling, although not quite—not enough. Crawley is not looking for comfort, for company, when he slithers up to him, when he mimics his odd human-like appearance, he tells to himself. He strikes up a conversation, he asks questions—old habits die hard.

The angel scolds him, reminds him of his status. Demon. The Great Plan is ineffable, it's unwise to speculate. Uncomfortable turn, for this conversation—echoes of other angels, other uncomfortable conversations.

A change of topic is needed, fast.

“Didn't you have a flaming sword?” Crawley remembers the angel walking on the edge of the wall with the fiery weapon, remembers the way he held onto it, effortlessly but warily, an unwanted extension of his arm. A reluctant warrior.

“Uh, I gave it away,” the angel can’t possibly mutter, because an angel wouldn't do that. He wouldn't—

“You _what_?”

“I gave it _away!_” the angel cries, and Crawley can just blink slowly at him in amazement.

The angel rants and rants and he really acted without thinking, oh Lord, what if he did the wrong thing? He was just worried for those humans, that was all, he didn't mean—he couldn't pick a side, a bit of an overreaction, first offence and everything, he didn't mean to—and Crawley _likes _him, hopes to see more of this fretful, naughty, weird angel.

He’s genuine when he tries to comfort him, although he doesn't believe his own words, because angels can do wrong and they get punished for it, but they forget they're angels and demons for a moment. It’s fine.

“It’d be funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one.”

The angel laughs, then acts all offended, and Crawley smirks at him.

There's a loud crack above them—the storm is upon the garden. Water starts falling from the sky in fat droplets, soaks up Crawley's clothes, his feathers, his hair.

“Here,” the angel says, and Crawley instinctively steps under his wing to keep dry.

It doesn't last long. Soon the sky is clear again, odd spots of plants dot the desert before them, as if they’d been hiding under the sand just waiting for this moment to sprout.

The wet dirt in the garden smells stronger than before, as if the stones have been bleeding.

"I didn't catch your name” Crawley says, while they both shake water from their wings.

“Well, that’s because I didn't—uhm. I’m Aziraphale.”

Crawley spreads his wings—wonders if he should turn back into a serpent, and decides against it.

“May we meet again, Aziraphale.”


	7. A Year After The Apocalypse That Wasn't—But Who's Counting Anymore, Really?

The sun is warm on his face and the grass is fresh and pleasantly humid under his body. Aziraphale is in the middle of one of his anecdotes, fingers buried in Crowley's hair, his thigh solid and soft under his head, his soothing voice droning sweetly in the background, drowning out the noise of other people spread around the park, who like them are taking advantage of the rare day of dry weather to eat their lunch outside.

Crowley could just fall asleep like that.

“—I almost considered closing the shop, you know? But then again, I _was_ waiting on this very interesting shipment of first editions, so—where were you at the time, anyway? I remember not seeing you for quite a while.”

“Mh? What year was it, again?” Crowley mumbles, eyes already closing.

“A few years before the war, I think. 1908, maybe?”

Crowley frowns. “I was sleeping, probably. I kind of slept through the Great War and was asleep for, huh, let's say a while, after that.” He tries to stifle a yawn and fails. He slits his eyes open to see Aziraphale looking down at him, a sharp smile on his lips. Oops, busted.

“You were falling asleep just _now_, weren't you?” the angel scolds him, but he sounds fond.

“Maybe—ouch, don't pull on my hair! I wasn't falling asleep, I was just, huh, relaxing.”

The angel snorts. “Cheeky prat," he says, but he starts carding through the strands with his former gentleness, his fingertips slightly scratching into his scalp, soothing like an apology.

Crowley lets him play around with his hair, lets him brush the longish locks one way and the other, against his own thigh, all around Crowley's face. He probably looks ridiculous.

“It's getting pretty long, isn't it?”

“I can shorten it again if you don't like it.”

“I didn't say that. Quite the opposite, actually. I think you look extremely fetching with long hair,” Aziraphale says, conversationally, and Crowley goes very still.

“If you say so, angel," he croaks. His face feels warm. He never knows what to say when Aziraphale says stuff like that, no matter how many times Aziraphale compliments him. “Do we still have cake?” he stutters out, desperate to change the subject.

Aziraphale's eyes twinkle, then soften. “Of course. Shall I fetch us a slice?” he says, allowing him the escape.

“Please. I need to do something more than laying down or I _will_ fall asleep for real.”

Crowley pulls himself up, brushing wayward grass blades off his shirt and stretching his spine, and sits back as Aziraphale fusses with the basket. It's an actual picnic basket, as in, one that had been _bought_ in a _shop_ instead of having been miracled on the spot; one that a few hours earlier he watched Aziraphale get out of a dusty cupboard of his kitchenette; one that came with a coordinate picnic set of crockery and a picnic blanket. He preferred laying on the grass—there were probably snake-related reasons he didn't want to think too strongly about—but it was still an impressive thing to have.

As he watches Aziraphale, clad in a pair of linen trousers, matching waistcoat and a pale shirt with its sleeves rolled up, kneeling on the blanket as he cuts up the cake, Crowley thinks he will never get used to it. He spent a long time sleeping, but he never had dreams; maybe this is it.

“Why do you even _have _a picnic basket, anyway,? Crowley says, as Aziraphale gives him his slice of vanilla cake, bland and delicate and deliciously spongy against his palate, on a little plate with a little fork.

Aziraphale blinks at him, his smile falling a little before going back on his face, tinged with—something that might have been shyness or sorrow or embarrassment or alarm. “Oh, it's silly. You’ll laugh at me if I tell you,” he stutters, dismissively, as he digs into his own slice of cake.

”I won't laugh,” Crowley reassures him. “Much.”

The angel huffs a chuckle. “Alright. Well, you remember when I gave you—well. That thermos.”

_We could go have a picnic. Dine at the Ritz. You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Crowley swallows. The cake feels like a lump of glue going down. "I remember, yeah. What about it?”

“Well, I felt bad about—uhm. I feel like I wasn't very nice to you that night. Holy water notwithstanding—” Aziraphale visibly cut himself off. “Anyway. I went out the very next day and I bought the basket, because I planned to ask you to go for a picnic, to show you that—you know. I could never work up the nerve, I guess.”

“We did dine at the Ritz, eventually,” Crowley said, gently.

“And you're giving me lifts everywhere, these days.” Aziraphale smiled. “I told you it was silly.”

The way Aziraphale says ‘silly’ feels like he meant ‘pathetic’, but Crowley feels strangely relieved.

“So you kept a picnic basket in a cupboard for fifty-three years while waiting for the right moment to ask me out, after we spent six thousand years basically dating. What's silly about that?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him. He's blushing a little. “Oh, do _shut up_.”

He can’t help but laugh, now. Aziraphale starts laughing along. They're a bit hysterical by the time they're finished, but that's fine. It always happens, when they start talking about this kind of thing.

They eventually finish eating, gather all their things in the basket before the ducks can make off with their leftovers, and begin to leave. The sun is starting to hide behind a few clouds, but it's still warm out and people are lingering on the grass, enjoying the last hours of light before going home.

The way back to the car is spent in a companionable silence, their shoulders brushing as they walk side by side. Aziraphale hums a tune under his breath, and Crowley smiles.

“What you're smiling about?” the angel asks, with a grin of his own.

Crowley is smiling about Aziraphale, who thinks that a dinner at the Ritz is less loaded than a picnic in St. James park; who literally flooded his bookshop to get rid of a few customers one day because Crowley was feeling cranky; who wrapped each piece of cutlery in a different napkin before putting them in the picnic basket because the noise they do when they click together is ‘spooky’; who likes complimenting Crowley because _he's a little fiend _and he _knows_ that Crowley doesn't know to do with himself when he does; who apologized because he had never figured out that Crowley's food preferences followed _texture_ rather than taste and he had never understood until Crowley told him; who learned to dance although angels don't dance because he's just that stubborn; who spent a year going _fast, _because Crowley had always gone fast, and never once complained when Crowley spent the whole year going slow, slow, _slow, _instead—they stopped walking circles around it, now.

Crowley shakes his head. “You,” he says, simply.

Aziraphale slips his hand in his, and they keep walking. One step at a time.

Six thousand years is a long time to unravel. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to my good friend Andy ([@atypical_chiss](https://twitter.com/atypical_chiss) on twitter, go check his art out!) for all the support and encouragement <3


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